


the sun ain't gonna shine anymore (bring it back, baby)

by luckycharmz



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, POV Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:29:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23744587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckycharmz/pseuds/luckycharmz
Summary: “The only regret I have is not being the one to say goodbye to you.”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 26
Kudos: 53





	the sun ain't gonna shine anymore (bring it back, baby)

**Author's Note:**

> Title: The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore - The Walker Brothers.

He’s been home for six months now. 

For everyone else its six months but to you its four thousand seven hundred and forty-five hours. But you don't say it out loud. 

It’s the longest he’s been home without receiving _that_ call but all good things come to an end, right?

He says this is his last tour and you believe him because he’s never said those words to you before. Hearing them sends a relief through your body but at the same time you realize that he needs to _leave_ once again in order to come to back. 

And leaving hurts. 

It hurts to watch him go. 

It hurts to not be able to touch him for months, sometimes a year. 

It hurts to fucking breathe. 

But you tell yourself it’s okay, this is the last time it’ll hurt. You can deal with a little hurt if it means he’ll be home forever. 

So you chalk it up. You cry into his shoulder the night before and cling onto him with everything in you. He doesn’t tease you and neither do you put a front up, he needs you, too. You watch him sleep because you don’t know the next time you will. Maybe it’s also because you just can’t sleep, you think he might leave without waking you because he’s got a soft spot for letting you sleep in. 

The sun rises again, maybe it’s just Ian. 

You make his favorite breakfast; blueberry pancakes, crispy bacon and burning hot coffee. You even cut fruit the way he likes and pour a glass of OG just in case he wants it instead. You want to take care of him for as long as you can. 

You hope the broken look on your face is hidden but figure that’s a long shot. He’s trying to hold himself together just as much and even then you can see through him. 

But no one brings it up.

You laugh at his stupid jokes. He kisses you every ten seconds and you always have a hand touching him. You let the tears sting behind your eyes all the same. 

He’s packed and ready to go, standing by the open door and the cab out front. 

This is the hardest part. Letting him leave. 

You don’t hesitate or act tough, you stopped doing that long ago. Instead you hold him and hold him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hide yourself in his body, hoping you’ll melt into him or he’ll swallow you whole. The body that has become more of a home to you than any walls could ever be.

That doesn’t happen.

“Eight months, Milkovich.” He wraps his hands around your face and for the second time you want to hide inside him. You want to be in him, never away from him and just holding, holding, _holding on_. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, you can feel the tears ready to spill over any moment. 

Your foreheads fall together in time and then you’re kissing. You feel every inch of him intertwine around you, wrapping you like a weave and tightening. You want to suffocate in his touch and never have to live without it. You think he’s read your mind, he feels the same because he’s kissing you as if it’s what’s keeping him from falling apart and if that isn’t the fucking truth, then what is?

“I love you. I fucking  _ love you_,” he says. His voice so honest and eyes earnest, it makes your bones _ache_. 

Minutes pass but you can only let yourself smile at him.

“Say it back, Mickey,” he pleads and hes crumbling right before but you can’t. “ _Please_.”

You swallow down the dryness in your throat. “Eight months, right? I’ll say whatever the fuck you want then.” You don’t know if you said the right thing or wrong because the look on his face is twisted and hurt but you just _can’t_. You need this, to promise yourself he’ll be back. To have something to hold onto. 

The cab honks and it sounds more like a siren to you. Telling you time is up. So you lean in again. 

He murmurs _I love you_ over your lips and walks down the steps, bag in hand as he turns. “Mick. Goodbye, baby.” His mouth spreads into that contagious, all fucking consuming, perfect smile. 

You drop your head momentarily and rub at your lip before looking back up. Leaning against the door frame to keep yourself from falling and breaking. All you can do is nod because this _isn’t_ goodbye. 

This is only the beginning. 

You’re grateful for skype, phone calls, and letters. Sometimes you barely talk, just look at each other and _be_. You secretly check for new bruises or scars on him, you see less freckles too but don’t say anything.

Not now at least.

A relived breath escapes your mouth each time he calls or you get a letter with his name.

With each passing day you put an _x_ on the calendar when realization bestows that he’ll be home in less than one month.

One month until _forever_.

Waking up alone hurts less and doing laundry doesn’t feel so hard now. The picture under your pillow with his face no longer mocks you, instead it excites you. 

Because he’ll be home in eighteen days. 

Until he isn’t. 

You get a call you never cared to imagine because this was not supposed to happen. This wasn’t the fucking plan.

The next thing you know they’re bringing the love of your fucking life home in a damned body bag. 

You force yourself to wake up from this dream— this _nightmare_. Nothing changes.

It’s sweltering hot but somehow you manage to put a suit on, _for him_. You fight so fuckin hard that morning to keep yourself together instead of drowning yourself in liquor just to be where he is. To be with him one more time. 

Speeches are given. Guns are fired. Not a single dry eye and all you can picture is his fucking smile. 

You stand looking at his resting body in the casket. 

All you can think of is how you didn’t say goodbye.

You didn’t fucking say I love you, too. 

_ I love you so fucking much.  _

Ian was the light to your darkness.

Ian is gone. 

The sun does not rise again. 

**Author's Note:**

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